Deadtown and Other Tales of Horror Set in the Old West Read online

  Deadtown and Other Tales of Horror Set in the Old West

  Carl Hose

  MARLvision Publishing

  © 2010 Carl Hose

  Cover art © 2010 Marcella Hose

  Most Wanted

  These people who are due special thanks:

  My beautiful wife Marcee, who brings so much love into my life that I couldn’t possibly begin to cover it all here. She is my heart and soul. She is the glue that holds our family together. She’s my lover, my best friend, and all I could ever want in a soul mate.

  My children, Nick, Haley, Seth, Ethan, and Caleb, who bring joy into my life. I love them more with each day that passes.

  My mom, Carolyn, who always encouraged me to be what I wanted to be.

  My mother-in-law, Patience Stuart, who supports me in everything I do, who reads my work faithfully (criticizes it when she has to), and who edited this book with a keen eye. She probably knows the stories better than I do. I couldn’t ask for a better mother-in-law or a better editor.

  To everybody who buys this book and takes the time to read the stories. I’d still write without you, but it wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying.

  Introduction

  Deadtown and Other Tales of Horror Set in the Old West is a title that pretty much speaks for itself. The stories in this collection take place in the old west, with the exception of the last story, which takes place partially in present time and partially in Civil War times. After you’ve read the story, I believe you’ll see why I included it.

  There are three stories in this book featuring a character named Frank Talbott. The stories are similarly plotted. This is because Frank is a predictable character. You may not like that about him. If not, feel free to skip over the Talbott stories, I won’t mind.

  Two of the stories in this collection have a different feel than the others. One is a ghost story, the other is a revenge story. Both have relatively happy endings, but I felt they were a good fit for this collection nonetheless.

  The rest of the stories are full of supernatural terror and old west flavor. There are zombies, mummies, werewolves, skinwalkers, vampires, and things that sliter underground waiting for you between these pages. I enjoyed writing each these tales. I hope you enjoy reading them.

  If you’re ready—and I know you are—take a ride with me back to those thrilling days of yesteryear. Walk with me through the valleys of darkness and the burning hot sands of the prairie. Let’s see how the west was really won.

  —Carl Hose

  It Rolled Into Town

  What the hell you figger it is?” Barton asked, using his tongue to push a long-dead stump of cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “Damned if I know,” Kincaid answered. He tossed two cards on the table, then lifted his butt off the chair and scratched his ass. “Tell ya this, though, I aim to find out.”

  “They got a man on it full time,” Barton said.

  Kincaid took a card from the deck, studied his hand, then said. “I’m gonna take me a peek in back of that wagon, and you’re gonna give me a hand. I got me a little plan. . . .”

  * * *

  One guard leaned against the back of the wagon, cradling his Winchester. He pushed up straight when he saw Barton approaching from across the street.

  “Hey, there, friend,” Barton chortled, coming up short when he saw the rifle aimed at his belly. “Ain’t no need to get tense, now,” he said. “Thought you might could use some company is all.”

  The guard relaxed some but kept the rifle half raised. He gave Barton a suspicious once-over.

  “Look like you could use a drink,” Barton said.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a pint.

  “Mighty nice of ya,” the guard said, still leery of Barton.

  He accepted the bottle and took a quick swig, followed by four hard gulps that damn near finished it off. Kincaid was in the shadows. He waited for Barton to fully engage the guard before he dropped down to his belly and snake-crawled his way under the wagon.

  “Say . . . you got any relief?” Barton asked in a friendly tone.

  “It’s just me and the fella who owns the cargo,” the guard answered. “He breaks me every couple hours or so, but mainly it’s just me.”

  “Don’t seem quite fair,” Barton said. “Don’t seem quite fair at all.”

  “Well, the money’s good enough, and I ain’t got nothin’ better to do,” the guard said with a shrug of broad shoulders.

  “Look, I got an idea . . .” Barton lowered his voice to a whisper. “How ’bout we slip over to the saloon and watch the girls dance?”

  “Wish I could, but . . .”

  “Come on,” Barton said, slinging one arm over the guard’s shoulders. “We can be over there and back before the boss knows you’re gone. You can whet your whistle and maybe somethin’ else while you’re at it. Won’t nobody be none the wiser.”

  It was a good proposition from the guard’s perspective. He was awful tired and in need of a break. Another swig of the whiskey made up his mind for him. “What the hell,” he said. “I ain’t seen anybody around all day.”

  The two men stumbled off like they’d already done more than a dog’s share of drinking. Kincaid scrambled out from under the wagon and climbed on board. A quick glance around showed the wagon was crowded as all get-out. Clothes, food supplies, a couple of rifles, and lots of bottles of cure-all tonic. Typical drummer’s fare as far as Kincaid could tell.

  He was about to give it up when he found something of interest. It was buried under a stack of furs. He dug until he got a good look at it.

  “I’ll be damned,” he mumbled, running his fingers around the edge of what was surely some sort of coffin. It had the shape of a man, leastways, and it was made out of fine wood and covered with big jewels.

  Kincaid grabbed up one of the rifles and stuck it between the lid and the lip of the box. An awful shriek let loose as the lid came away.

  “Well, son of a bitch . . .” he muttered.

  Inside the coffin lay the likes of which he’d never seen. He’d heard a few tales, sure, but now the thing was right in front of his eyes, plain as the face of the woman that played the organ in church every Sunday.

  This was one of those mummies, all wrapped up just like he’d always heard they was. Some famous pharaoh most likely. Maybe even that Ramey fella, whose name seemed to be popular when folks was talking mummies.

  Kincaid shivered. He was about to drop the lid back down when he caught sight of a bag tucked down beside the mummy. He suddenly recalled another part of the story—something else folks liked to talk about when mummies were the subject. Seems them ’Gyptian fellas liked to bury loot with their kings. If that was the case here, Kincaid was sure he was in for a treat.

  He stuffed the bag down the front of his pants and shut the coffin.

  * * *

  Barton and the guard were whooping it up back at the saloon. Kincaid entered and gave Barton a signal. Barton finished off his drink and slapped the guard on the back, saying he thought they should call it a night.

  After the guard had stumbled back to his post, Barton met Kincaid out back of the saloon.

  “You ain’t gonna believe this,” Kincaid said.

  He pulled out the bag and opened it, showing Barton a load of fat red rubies.

  “Damn me twice,” Barton said, right near in awe.

  “Took ’em off one of them dead kings,” Kincaid said.

  “A dead what?”

  “You know, one of them mummies. There’s a mummy in the damn wagon.”

  “You took those off a dead gu
y?”

  “That’s what I said, ain’t it? Ain’t like he’s gonna miss ’em. You ’n’ me, we can set ourselves up real good, get the hell outta this no-account town and go somewheres where we can live the high life.”

  Barton scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “Seems to me there’s a curse goes along with stealin’ from a mummy.”

  “That’s hogwash and you know it. It’s just the way they get folks not to steal is all. Now let’s don’t waste time. We gotta go ’fore that guard gets wind of this.”

  Kincaid sent Barton off to round up the bare essentials for their escape while he went to fetch a couple of horses. He was in the process of saddling a gelding when he heard a noise outside the livery.

  “That you, Bart?” he called in a harsh whisper.

  The figure that stepped into the open doorway was too big to be Barton. It blocked out the sliver of moonlight that had previously provided Kincaid with just enough light to work by.

  Kincaid felt fear squeezing his belly.

  “Who goes there?” he asked, his voice cracking with unease. Was it the guard? If it was, Kincaid would have to kill him. He hadn’t figured on doing any killing, but he wasn’t about to give up his chance at the good life.

  The shape moved into the livery. Kincaid reached for his gun and realized he wasn’t wearing his belt. He searched for something he could use as a weapon. He spotted a poker made of heavy iron that would do just fine.

  The figure advanced on him.

  Kincaid went for the poker. He had to cross in front of the shadowy figure to get his hands on it. He didn’t make it half way before the shape lunged at him.

  A big gray hand wrapped in torn bandages fell on Kincaid’s hand as he reached for the poker. The hand closed down so hard on Kincaid’s hand that his bones snapped like dry tender.

  Kincaid groaned, not so much from the pain of having his bones crushed as from the fear of what he was looking at. His was a groan born of sheer terror.

  To his credit, Kincaid tried to put up a fight. He twisted around to face the mummy and found himself staring at an empty eye socket.

  The big dead thing yanked hard and wrenched Kincaid’s arm from its socket.

  Kincaid peed his britches then. He thought about talking to God, but since he hadn’t been on speaking terms with Him in a long time, he figured it might make matters worse trying to slip in good at the last minute.

  The mummy grabbed Kincaid by the throat and lifted him right off the ground. Kincaid’s boot toes thrashed above the dirt and kicked at the moldering thing, but the mummy held him effortlessly with one hand and plunged its free hand into Kincaid’s stomach. Its fist exited the back of Kincaid in a shower of slimy entrails and a portion of spine.

  * * *

  Barton checked to see the rifles were fully loaded. He cradled them under one arm and grabbed a burlap sack full of supplies. Kincaid was right about the curse. It was all hogwash. Nothing but stories made up to keep people from looting the tombs. Most people were dumb enough to fall for that sort of thing.

  Barton noticed on his way to the livery that the drummer’s wagon was unguarded. It struck him odd. He wandered over to take a look. It’d be a damn shame if the guard had already discovered the missing loot. A thing like that would put a cramp in the whole plan.

  Barton felt funny as he approached the wagon. He chalked it up to being in such close proximity to the corpse. He never did like corpses, and he especially didn’t like the idea of a corpse he was stealing from. Curse or not, it wasn’t good business messing with the dead.

  He leaned up to look inside the wagon. He’d barely got his head inside when something walloped him good. Near as he could tell, he was airborne for ten, maybe even fifteen feet. He landed on his ass with an impact so hard he bit the tip of his tongue clean through.

  The mummy emerged from the back of the wagon with the guard’s head in one hand. Barton shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then he lunged for one of the rifles that had skittered away when he’d hit the ground.

  The mummy reached him before Barton could get his hands on a rifle. He felt the creature’s big hand wrap around his left arm and twist, snapping it at the elbow. Barton wailed in agony and then let loose with a series of curse words as he rolled sideways toward the nearest rifle.

  “Come on, you son of a bitch,” he grunted, coming to his feet with his good arm bracing the rifle against his side.

  The mummy lumbered after Barton, whose throat was as dry as the Arizona desert in a drought. Barton raised his knee for support and levered a round into the rifle’s chamber. There wasn’t going to be a another chance.

  “Come on, you unholy devil,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Barton drew a bead on the mummy’s head and fired. The heavy caliber bullet ripped through dirty wrappings and exited the mummy’s head from the rear. The mummy stumbled backward, started for Barton again, then fell face down in the dirt. For good measure, Barton stumbled over to the fallen sack of bones, levered another round into the rifle’s chamber, and blasted another sizable hole in what was left of the mummy’s head.

  A crowd slowly began to gather.

  “Shoot it again,” someone from the crowd called out, and then more of the onlookers joined in, hooting and hollering and calling for more action.

  Barton didn’t see the point. The thing was as dead as it needed to be. He dropped the rifle and turned his back on it. The pain in his broken arm came on full force then. A piece of bone stuck up through the skin, wet and gleaming with dark blood. Instead of offering Barton assistance, the crowd surged past him and began to loot the wagon.

  A couple wild boys from the saloon set fire to the mummy.

  The owner of the creature tried pushing past the crowd and into the wagon, hoping to find the jewels.

  Barton headed across the street to the livery. He had a pretty good idea what he’d find when he got there. He was right. It wasn’t at all a pleasant sight.

  He retrieved the jewels he found next to Kincaid’s mangled corpse, and then he buried them someplace far away. He wanted no part of them now. It didn’t make good sense. Nope, it didn’t make good sense at all. . . .

  * * *

  A wagon bounced along a deeply rutted road. It’s passenger looked worried. “You sure this is the right way?” he asked.

  “Little Creek ain’t more than a mile,” the driver answered flatly.

  “My brother’s going to be real upset. He wanted those two kept together,” the passenger said, hooking a thumb toward the back of the wagon, where a sarcophagus jostled with every bump in the road.

  Inside the sarcophagus, peering from a slit in her dirty wrappings, a queen mourned the death of her king. She waited patiently, for she knew glorious retribution lay just ahead. . . .

  Deadtown

  Frank Talbott looked out over the ridge. He could see a town down there, resting smack in the middle of the valley. Far as he knew, it was a town out of place, not on any map.

  A town that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  Not that Frank planned to complain. He’d been riding hard for three days across the hot Texas soil. What the hell did he care if somebody forgot to put the damn town on the map? It was all the same to him. There’d be food, women, and whiskey, and that was just about all Frank needed to make him happy.

  He nudged his mare, keeping a tight hold on the reins to steady her down the rocky slope. She knew the comforts of a populated town too, and if Frank didn’t keep her from it, she’d most likely take a tumble in her eagerness.

  A weather-beaten wooden post marked the town limits. As Frank approached the sign, he could make out the faint outline of the word DEADTOWN in hand painted letters.

  “Sure hope that ain’t a sign of things to come, girl,” Frank said, stroking the mare’s neck. “I was hopin’ for a little social activity.”

  He nudged his mare forward, right down the center of main street. The Wet Whistle Saloon sat sma
ck dab in the middle of town. It was Frank’s first stop.

  The lively sounds of a piano tumbled from inside the saloon. Frank slid out of his saddle, took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand, then tied his mare to a post. He slid his Winchester from its boot and canted it over his left shoulder as he headed inside.

  The place was mostly empty. Frank stopped just inside the door and let his eyes slide from one side of the joint to the other. Two pasty-faced men sat at a corner table to his left, playing a game of cards. The piano player was directly ahead, completely still except for his fingers tickling the ivories.

  A long wooden bar running damn near the full length of the place sat to the right of the entrance. The lanky barkeep was in the process of wiping a glass, his eyes cast in the direction of the piano player, not so much paying particular attention, just looking.

  “Might be somethin’ to that sign after all,” Frank muttered. “These folks ain’t exactly whoopin’ it up.”

  He sauntered to the bar, leaned his rifle against it, and reached into his pocket for the makings of a cigarette. The barkeep didn’t glance Frank’s way. He kept right on washing the same glass and watching the piano player.

  Frank struck a match and fired up his smoke. A blue cloud of smoke briefly billowed around his face. He waved it away.

  “Be nice if I could get a bottle down here,” Frank called to the barkeep.

  The barkeep reached below the counter and came up with a bottle of rye. He slid it down the polished countertop to where Frank sat. He still hadn’t cast a glance in Frank’s direction.

  “Whatta I owe ya?” Frank asked, digging into his pocket.

  The barkeep didn’t respond. He kept right on working on the same glass, watching the piano player play the same tune.

  Frank was about tired of the song as it was, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was about the tune that kept the barkeep in a trance.